Craig

Sometimes, when I’m trying to prod a recalcitrant employee into a semblance of action, I think of Craig and smile. I know he’s out there somewhere, leaving a maelstrom of dust and sales orders in his wake.

I have owned and run several companies. Early on, I was fortunate enough to learn that bricks, mortar and equipment are one thing, but what makes or breaks you is your people. Everyone pays lip service to that, but how many put their principal efforts into recruiting, training and retaining top talent?

Every position has a role and is important, or should be. But, nothing moves until the sale is made. So, primo salespeople are the key.

One of my most productive hires was Craig, to sell in the upper Midwest territory of a company I ran. He immediately caused ripples in our conservative Cincinnati office. Craig was a bit of a wildman, but he had what I consider a vital trait for such a position; something to prove. Having grown up in the crucible of east coast cities, I didn’t find his brash style to be over the top, but that wasn’t the case with most of our staff. They didn’t think he’d last a month. Our product was very high ticket, and competition was cutthroat. Mary Poppins wouldn’t prevail in this market.

I went to Chicago to train Craig for a week. As I left him, I said that there were two major prospects in St. Louis we hadn’t even been able to get an appointment with. In three months, I wanted to meet him there for sales calls with both. It was on his shoulders. He didn’t flinch or protest. A good sign.

Six weeks later, he called and said to meet him in St. Louis. We had a long lunch with executives of one of the targeted companies and it was as if they were Craig’s old fraternity brothers. It was apparent that he had taken them golfing, drinking and maybe a couple other things I didn’t want to know about. A contract was imminent.

We made a few other minor sales calls as a prelude to dinner with the other big prospect. In each case, Craig was welcomed like Lindbergh landing in Paris. Then, for the main event, we motored out to a posh restaurant to join the president of the company and his wife.

This was like a family reunion. Craig hugged both of them and lightly bussed the elegantly attired wife on the cheek. He asked for updates on their children, tennis games and vacation home under construction in South Carolina. The couple was originally from northern California, and bore the taste for wine common to the breed. Craig held forth on the subject with authority and ordered various vintages for sampling. The alcohol kicked in and they were soon loudly gabbling away about Marin County.

Food was eventually ordered, but the flow of grape didn’t slacken. I noticed the wife starting to withdraw. She sat there with an unfocused stare and hiccupped. Then, she clutched the linen napkin to her mouth and wretched. That attended to, she slouched in a stupor. Without losing a beat in his patter with the husband, Craig dabbed at her lips with his napkin and closed her slack fingers around it. “Here, you might need this,” he muttered from the corner of his mouth before seamlessly resuming the joke he had been telling to the husband.

We walked them to the valet station (supporting the lady on either side) and exchanged embraces when their car arrived. The prospect instructed Craig to send him a contract proposal. They sped away and I extended my hand in congratulation. “Great work, really great. We’ll rough out a contract at breakfast.”

Craig shook my hand. “Thanks, boss, but we’ll celebrate now.”

Huh? It was pushing eleven and I was feeling the wine. “I think that’s enough for one evening.”

“Not a chance.’ Craig handed his claim check to the valet and winked at me.

He made a beeline for what could best be described as a singles bar. I noted he was completely familiar with the location. We wedged into two stools at the crowded bar and Craig ordered martinis. Swell. I was telling Craig what an outstanding job he had done, but he was preoccupied scanning the bar like a hawk looking for field mice.

I was facing Craig and couldn’t help but notice the couple behind him. He was a well-maintained 50 with carefully barbered hair, a cashmere sweater and Italian loafers that equated to one of my monthly house payments.

She was under thirty, brassy blond and subscribed to the Sherwin Williams school of makeup. I might not have paid them any attention, but his tongue was in her ear about halfway to her brain, and he was ambidextrously administering mammary and pelvic exams. Not your basic Norman Rockwell portrait. Her face was turned heavenward, eyes closed in ecstasy and tongue lolled out. Classy! If they weren’t technically engaged in “the act,” it was a reasonable facsimile.

Craig remained oblivious, until she jerked an elbow in reaction to an especially artful manipulation. He swiveled around to detect the source of the jostling and stared at her unblinkingly.

“Craig,” I whispered when he didn’t curtail his close range scrutiny. “Craig!”

She must’ve felt the weight of his stare because her eyes opened and met his. They narrowed in irritation when he didn’t break off.

Craig smiled affably. “You doin’ anything later tonight?” A good salesperson never shies away from asking for the order.

She tried to hop off her stool, but was still enmeshed with her beau. With a fierce effort, she broke free, nearly losing some undergarments in the process, and flounced off. The boyfriend looked at Craig, who just shrugged. He took off after his girlfriend.

Craig turned to me and grinned. “Craig, you have to try to come out of your shell.”

I finally persuaded him to leave. He started the car and I tilted my head back. “Home, James.”

“Home? I’m hungry.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.” He wasn’t.

At that time of the morning, what’s open? Craig seemed to know. It wasn’t long before we were skidding into the parking lot of a Steak n’ Shake.

Craig marched up to the counter and plopped himself down. I followed suit.

An acne-plagued teen of indeterminate gender lounged behind the counter in a badly wrinkled shirt and eyed us with irritation. When it became apparent that we weren’t leaving, he (I think) slunk over to us and growled, “Whadda you want?’

I gave Craig the “let’s go” look, but he pretended not to notice. “Steakburgers, my good man, what else?”

“We got all kinds of burgers. Whadda ya want?”

Craig craned his neck. “Are you going to prepare them on THAT grill?”

“Nah, buddy, I’m gonna build a campfire in the friggin’ parking lot.”

Craig reached into his coat pocket and flipped open his business card case. “Harriman, Steak n’ Shake quality control. You’re busted!”

The lethargic teen leaned over to inspect credentials, but Craig quickly snapped the case shut and sliced it into his pocket. “Now get back there and clean that grill. I want to be able to look in it and count my nose hairs.”

The boy ambled over to the grill and started going through the motions. “Craig,” I murmured through clenched lips, “what are you doing?”

“Getting us a decent snack. You there, Zippy the Wonderslug. Put some back into it!”

“Craig.” But, it was too late. He whipped around the counter, grabbed the tool from the kid and vigorously stroked away, using one hand for downward force. “Like that! Do it like your job’s on the line.”

At that point, a door swung open and a bespectacled man lumbered out, face reddened with anger. Uh oh. He was rotund enough to cause his tie to terminate about five inches north of his trousers. “What the hell’s going on out here?” he bellowed.

“Craig, let’s bail.”

But Craig ate guys like this for breakfast. “Who the hell is this, Humphrey Pennyworth?” He fairly leapt across the room and got right in his face. “You the manager here? I mean, up until now.”

“Err, yeah.”

“Harriman, quality control. This place is a freakin’ sty. Worst I’ve seen in four states. The floor is filthy, the grill cruddy and your shirt looks like the front row of a Gallagher show. Get in there and change it while I do your managing for you. And I mean right now!”

The manager backpedaled from Craig at a good clip. “And Humphrey, while you’re at it, why don’t you throw a party so your tie can meet your belt.” I doubted he got it, but he wasn’t about to stop. He darted into his office like a prairie dog dives into a burrow.

Craig closely supervised the cleaning of the grill and the preparation of our food. Leaving, he shouted threats over his shoulder, in the event we ever returned and found less-than-perfect conditions.

We cruised down a boulevard, with gardens dividing the lanes. “You didn’t even offer to pay.”

“Pay them? Hell, they should pay me. I did them a favor.”

“We are going back to the hotel now, aren’t we?”

“Heck yeah, I’m bushed. What else would we do at three in the morning?”

What else indeed. “Just checking.”

We closed distance with a large piece of street cleaning equipment. Craig blinked the headlights impatiently. “Craig, I don’t think that’s going to help.” He pounded the horn. “He has nowhere to pull over.”

Craig blew out a long sigh and then looked left. He jerked the wheel and accelerated. Before I could say anything, we were up on the median at speed, plowing up shrubs and trellises. Once around the cleaner, we bumped back down to the street. “Where there’s a will…,’ intoned Craig, without looking at me.

We pulled into the hotel’s parking garage and Craig tried to hand the keys to the attendant. But, the elderly man was fixated on the front of our rental car, which was now bristling with roses and stick work. Craig poked him. “I say, old man, we seem to have gotten separated from the Rose Bowl parade. Can you tell me which way they went?”

We mapped out a contract proposal the next morning. I didn’t bring up the previous evening. What would I say?

I was back in the office by mid-afternoon. Roberta, my assistant, was aware my desk was buried, but couldn’t restrain herself. She leaned through the doorway. “Make any progress?”

“Sure did. I’m guessing two huge contracts by the end of next month.”

She arched her eyebrows in surprise. “Then Craig is everything you expected?”

“And more, Roberta. And more.”